


The Flagellate Interval

by AraSigyrn



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Flogging, M/M, unclear consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-03
Updated: 2012-09-03
Packaged: 2017-11-13 12:06:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/503378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AraSigyrn/pseuds/AraSigyrn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock might allow other people to merely tolerate him; he won't stand for it from John.  He doesn't say so.  John still knows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Flagellate Interval

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Kink_Bingo for my whipping/flogging square and betaed by deannawol ♥

John settles his fingers carefully into the grooves of the doorframe as he breathes in. The gloss paint is slippery under his palm and it's an odd shape to have to hold onto. The door is open. He can see the living room, splendid in its glorious squalor and smell the faintly acrid stink of Sherlock's latest experiments. The kitchen window is open a crack, just enough to chill the air. John can feel the goosebumps rising along his arms. The muffled sound of Mrs. Hudson's television mostly drowns out the hum of traffic on the road outside.

It does nothing to hide the swish of the flogger and the crack as the tails lash John's lower back. The spike of pain makes him tense and his breath stutters. The first hot flash is already spent but John would swear to God or Mycroft that in that first few seconds of the afterglow that he feels every single line left by the tails. The intial impact is on the thoracolumbar fascia but the tails have fanned out over the latissimus dorsi on the left side of his spine, feathering their stinging touch along the curve of his ribs and wrapping him in their caress.

Sherlock doesn't give him time to focus on the petty details; the flogger is already singing again. The second blow is softer, spread against the meatier planes of his upper back. It stings but there's nothing like the first rush of pain. John squares his shoulders and stares ahead. He braces himself carefully in the doorway and adopts the vacant stare of a hundred parade-grounds.

It's a vain effort. Sherlock might allow other people to merely tolerate him; he won't stand for it from John. He doesn't say so. John still knows. The flogger falls erratically, so skilfully wielded so John can't tell by the sound of the tails through the air or the creak of the floorboard how hard Sherlock is swinging it. He can never predict what the next blow will feel like. With his arms raised and his legs apart, John can't even brace himself against the heaviest blows.

He loses focus, staring blindly ahead as the flogger leaves burning trails across his back and sweat slicks his palms and a dull ache - easily overlooked - starts in the meat of his left shoulder. He has to work to keep his grip on the doorframe. His breathing is still mostly even and as deep as his sore back will allow and he hears, only once or twice, an almost grunt as Sherlock exhales on the stroke. His arousal is almost an afterthought; cock filling out and hard as it bobs between his legs in a echo of the beating.

However many times they do this, John is always staggered by how much he can bear. As the blows get faster, his left leg firms under him and John stands a little straighter. He's known partners who would have been furious and beaten harder until he buckled again. Sherlock strikes harder but there's a fierce joy in it. He doesn't want John to bend. He wants to prove - John's not sure to whom - that John can stand this.

The first time had been after the anti-climax of that first confrontation with Moriarty. Sherlock had been feral with rage and frustration. John, simmering with surplus adrenaline and jittery in the aftermath as he never was in the face of danger, had half-listened as Sherlock let all the confusing impulses and thoughts come spilling out.

Sherlock, John has learned, is a man of high passion and singular focus. Most of the time, that focus is solely on the cases and the relentless accumulation of knowledge. But sometimes, sometimes...he turns that focus on more mundane and physical needs. Sherlock still pushes, still excels and demands superhuman ability from the people he draws in to serve his purpose.

The flogger cracks like a gunshot and John tenses at just the wrong moment. Sherlock isn't expecting it; doesn't pull the power of the strike in time. Probably Sherlock was aiming for the shoulder blade. Instead, the flogger hits the scar tissue with all the force of Sherlock's wiry muscles behind it. The blow _hurts_. John's breath hisses out - the flare of pain is slower to ease - and he feels a wet trickle down his back. 

There's a second of shocked silence, both of them jarred out of rhythm of this nebulous thing between them. 

They're both in shock. Sherlock's never pretended to be anything he's not. John has never been safe; not when he follows the swirl of Sherlock's overly dramatic coat into the seedy alleys at the heart of London and not when he bares his back and the twisted scar on his shoulder. 

That's the point, after all. John's need to be in danger, to be useful intersecting with Sherlock's need to test, to understand and to control. They don't talk about it. They don't acknowledge it or try to shape it in words. There's no safe word, no escape clause beyond Sherlock's unreliable control and John's trust.

And it's worked, John thinks. 

Sherlock's left him black and blue but he's never been _damaged_ ; nothing permanent and nothing that requires more thought than a long bath and a little care in sitting for a few days. Sherlock's never drawn blood and the silence becomes expectant. Sherlock is close - so close that John can feel the faint warmth of his body against his back - but he doesn't touch John. He doesn't speak but John can hear his breathing quickening.

It's John's move.

He is absolutely certain that if he takes that one step forward - if he tries to leave - then Sherlock will let him go. He won't even blame John. He might even be willing to play this game again...once or twice. John isn't stupid, if he sets this limit then Sherlock will lose interest in the game. Maybe not right away but it will rapidly become a known value and Sherlock's rapacious curiosity will turn away from it.

John rolls his shoulders gingerly, wincing at the feel of acid-hot pain pooling in the stiffening muscles and Sherlock's breath catches. If he wasn't so hyper-sensitized, John wouldn't have heard it.

John shifts his grip, easing his hands down a half-inch and squares his shoulders, letting his head dip forward in mute submission. He takes a deep breath that isn't as steady as he would like it to be and waits.

Sherlock touches him immediately, thumb swiping up the trickle and John swallows at the wet sound of Sherlock sucking the taste - the blood? - from his finger. He's still hard, getting harder and even the slightest shift in the air makes John shudder. His hips are flexing, minute movements that John is helpless to control.

Sherlock's arm hooks around his neck, holding him in place as long clever fingers press between the cheeks of his arse, driving into him and stretching him in quick impatient movements that skid perilously close to painful. Sherlock is breathing hot and heavy against his ear, crowded so close that John can have no doubt about how badly Sherlock wants this.

He's pressing into John, too big and too sudden, before John can even catch his breath. Sherlock forces John to take him in short, relentless jerks until he's all the way in and John is stretched so tight around him that he thinks he's going to tear in half. Sherlock's pressed up against his back, shirt rubbing against the stinging tender skin and Sherlock's arm is locked tightly across his throat and he's moving too fast, already thrusting his hips forward, then back in a pitiless pistoning motion that makes John's knees buckle as white light flashes in front of his eyes.

Pain and pleasure tangle together and knot him up until he can't breathe, can't see, can't do anything but rock his hips back into Sherlock's relentless fucking and let Sherlock tear him apart all over again.


End file.
